L'Ecrivain se Lamente
by a.e. spencer
Summary: **part IV** like father, like son.....Post ATY--Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected.
1. Part I

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Title: L'Ecrivain se Lamente [1/7]

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Author: Airebella E. Spencer 

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Rating: mild R 

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Distribution: CD okay, but as always, remember the Golden Rule: Ask first, post later.

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Feedback: the nourishment of my soul his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com

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Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever. Go see the man with the papers.

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Summary: Post ATY…again another character of my own creation, but this is a seven part serial, so it'll be finished. Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected. 

[AN]: I'm planning on updating on a weekly basis, so please keep the feedback coming, I'd love to know how you feel about this piece. BIG thanks to everyone who looked at this for me: **kat** you ARE the best beta ever, and I hope everything works out great for you and **jess**, thanks for helping me work out the kinks. If there's any confusion, don't hesitate to email and ask.

"_There's something about the look in your eyes/something I noticed when the light was just right/it reminded me twice that I was alive/And it reminded me that you're so worth the fight" _incubus.echo

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"Seien Sie heute lieblich, aber wird morgen schön sein. "

Today is lovely, but tomorrow will be beautiful.

{Then}

Her name was Annika. Long skeins of chestnut curls ran down to the middle of her biceps, and she had biting emerald eyes that sparkled like diamonds. Her limbs and torso were long and thin, perfectly defined from every angle. Her toes always pointed, her dimple always shown, and her words were always deep, yet somehow flowing, elegant, disarming.

The amount of German she could remember, no matter how miniscule at times, had been instilled in her by Annika's patient teaching. They would converse in German together in front of which-ever maid Jack had hired at the time. Miraculously, none of the three employed during that six year time period spoke a word.

Other than Francie, Annika had been the closest thing she'd ever had to a sister. Moved somehow by an anonymous outside influence, Jack had applied to be the host home for a student from overseas, and during the fall of Sydney's twelfth year his request had been granted.

She came to them tall and lanky, with perfect colonial English, a bright smile on her face and authentic designer sunglasses shading her eyes. The summer of '86 had been one of the worst heat waves Sydney could remember, and the pale German was so enthused by the unbearable warmth that they took her to their family physician. Twice.

They both started the school year in a new place, beginning their education at a renowned preparatory school that taught the last two years of junior high to the last year of high school. One was in seventh grade (Bristow, Sydney A.) and the other was in ninth (Hopf, Anni L.). Prior to the commencement of the school year, they'd had two weeks together, two weeks that would turn into six years of bonding that no one could break. Their relationship was irreplaceable, their ties unbreakable, and so much more. 

As they blended into the backgrounds of their own misery, their lives became ambiguous, and their true purpose would be hidden behind a shadow of lies. 

{Now}

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her 

Emily was gone. Her funeral had been well attended, her life well mourned. Although is wasn't advised, she spoke at Emily's service, her eyes full of tears, her voice full of sorrow, hiding the hate for the deceased's spouse that still ran fresh in her blood. She had returned to her seat at her father's side only to excuse herself a few moments later, full of another pain. A pain that only one person could wash away. 

And that person was gone. He never existed.

She'd gone home and rummaged through her items, not hearing Francie's inquiries ("Are you okay, sweetie?"), nor answering her questions. Seek and you shall find, which was true, as the silver frame took no less than two minutes to find. The frame that once held her Mother's picture, a woman who she'd idolized so much, never realizing she knew so little, that she knew so much, and that it was all a lie. 

{Before}

The darkness that had consumed her once more faded away into a bright splash of color which injured her naked eyes. The air had become surreal, and for a split second she forgot that she had been tied to a chair before her presumed-to-be-dead mother. She'd forgotten the tears that began to run down her cheeks in a mass exodus from their protective captors, tears that began to flow down her cheeks unwanted. She forgot the look of horror on his face when he realized that he couldn't make it out: she forgot that he wasn't with her all together.

But as her pupils dilated and her eyes began to adjust, her senses tuning in once more, she realized that she wasn't tied to a chair at all. The room she was in was completely white, the only exception being the mahogany hardwood floor, and the four posts of the large bed that held her. A white goose down comforter had been pulled up underneath her neck, her aching head leaning back against pristine white pillows. Immaculate strips of chiffon hung from each post, encompassing her in a square of white that began to make her head spin. 

The snowy white walls comforted her sore pupils, leading her trained eyes towards the open doors that led out onto a sweeping terrace. She slowly made the attempt to stand, and in doing so realized that she remained in her latest mission's grungy attire, her hair bright blue, her clothes a sickening black. Her contrast with the rest of the room increased the bile that had collected in the back of her mouth, and increased her need to escape from this place. 

The only thing she felt was nausea as she used her forearms to push herself up into a sitting position. The room began to sparkle as she slowly swung her legs over the frame's edge. Her raw emotions were intensified by the throbbing that began to escalate at the back of her head. Clutching the nearest bedpost she slowly hoisted herself up, breathing in long, controlled breaths that were more suited for meditation that normal respiration.

The shocking hue of the azure sky screamed at her eyes, beckoning her forward. She wobbled, almost sauntering as she moved towards the wooden doors that lay open, paneled with cool glass that singed her boiling skin. As she finally wobbled out into the wide doorframe she found a pale piece of paper tacked to the wood, it's elegant loopy writing grabbing her attention.

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Sydney,

Freedom is yours. Live your life the way I couldn't live mine, and may happiness always be yours. The puzzle is still missing pieces, and on the forty-seventh day, when the story unravels, the answers will all become clear.

Much love,

Your mother, Laura

The paper crumbled in her fists, the blood rushing to her face as adrenaline surged throughout her body. A fresh breeze caressed her cheek, her nausea replaced by a nostalgia that she couldn't quite place. It lead her eyes from the crumpled vellum in her hands to the glistening blue-green sea and the blunt, sandy bluffs that rose all around her. 

She would leave the villa in the Palisades two days later, a bright yellow sundress wrapped around her thinning form. She walked through the front door and didn't say a word, only nodding to Francie's screams, tears silently running down her cheeks.

{Then}

The summer of '88 they were in England. Both in summer programs for the talented at Oxford where they remained for a month and a half, mastering Arabic and ballet (Bristow, Sydney A.) or Shakespearean theatre and Russian (Hopf, Anni L.). Annika took a class of Krav Maga instruction in London, and returning to the United States with her host sister some two months later the German was branded with an even thicker discipline than she possessed when she came to them. 

By then she could read and write in German. The rest of the duration of the summer was littered with parties and late night outings, the days full of activities that Annika often referred to as "the body's recreation." Mostly yoga or Thai chi, or military-style calisthenics on occasion. 

Alexander Deverko came into their lives in January of '89, his haunting gray eyes and tousled smile instantly melting her frozen heart. He wrote poetry in Russian and pointed his hockey stick into the crowd with each goal, yet none of it was for her. Still, her goofy laugh could always make him smile, and nothing could keep him from tweaking her nose. 

But he did write poetry in Russian. He did salute the audience with his stick after each goal scored, yet he'd only been branding the green-eyed German, following a tradition set by his elders. He'd delighted her tomboy senses and tickled her delicate emotions, and no matter how much she knew he loved Annika, he loved her too, if only in a different way. 

He'd been the first one to notice the striking similarities between the two of them. Both were long and wiry, with the same shade of wooden curls ("You should leave your hair down more, Sydney, it's beautiful"), same jutting jaw and cheekbones. Their strict discipline was painfully identical, leaving no room for mistake or flaw.

Annika came home several years later with tears streaming down her cheeks. As quickly as he'd entered their lives, Alexander Deverko was gone. And Annika was never the same.

{Before}

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him

He wasn't sure which was worse: breathing in water, or the feel of sickness that washed over him as the walls of his lungs collapsed. He gasped suddenly, desperately hungering for oxygen, raising his ribcage and diaphragm so fast that he began to regret it soon after. He shot up into a sitting position, heaving along the way, the contents of his drowned stomach and lungs splashing onto the cool tiled floor.

The checkered tiles began to spin, blacking out in certain sections of his peripheral vision. He gagged again and added to the mess that he'd made on the floor before his head abruptly hitting something soft. The darkness deluged in on him again, and he saw no more. 

--

The first thing he saw was her face. Her soft eyes, her defined cheekbones, and her gentle curls, all competing for his attention. She smiled brightly, and he felt a cool hand caress his forehead. Her dark eyes sparkled, their luminous twinkle blinding his sensitive pupils.

"Sydney?"

Her smile faded, and it was then that he noticed several of her dimples were missing. His eyes adjusted to the light and he realized that her eyes weren't the deep brown he'd always found comfort in. They were green. 

He shot up and released a yelp like scream, the shock registering across his face before his training began to kick in. He had been a field agent at one point, after all. He drew a blankness over his face and stared at "Sydney", his mind bulging out in shock.

"Sydney" was draped in all white, her dark emerald gaze falling across him from her perch on the end of the cot that cushioned him. She ran her long, bony fingers through the silken sheets, and sighed gently. A great sorrow drew itself over her eyes, and she peered down at her feet, examining the hypnotic, checkered floor. 

All in all, she looked like an angel. Her hair was perfectly curled, her skin perfectly bronzed, its surface immaculate and smooth. Her kind expression warmed him: it was somehow familiar, in a way that he couldn't quite place. When she looked back up at him, a sheet of tears had glazed over her eyes, and the all too real instinct to comfort her pulled at his chest.

"I knew Sydney once," she spoke, her voice laced with a British lilt, deep and feathery. "Sadly, I am not she. My name is Anna Deverko: you may call me Annika." 

{Now}

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her

She needed to get away. Every day in that house, returning to that office, meeting his replacement in their warehouse, it all ate at her. She went to the humane society the week she came back and adopted a kitten, to Francie's delight, ignoring the fact that she was allergic to most of them. She named him Mikey and took him everywhere with her when she could, never knowing why, never caring. The third week she decided that she needed a break, and left him in her roommate's care, driving to the airport. 

She took the first flight to Rome, not sure if she would ever come back.

{Then}

The class of 1990 graduated on a beautiful Sunday afternoon on the grassy bluffs situated just outside Malibu, overlooking the gray ocean. Jack Bristow took the day off, and she even thought she'd seen her father smile. He chatted with the Hopfs who hadn't been delayed in the Hamptons, and calculated the many precious seconds that led up to the attentive buzz of his pager sounding throughout the courtyard where the party was held, calling him away from that place into another.

She had been introduced to Annika's younger brother Heinrich, a tall handsome teenager with Scandinavian features. His accented English and love of European football drew her to him, and her gaze seemed to never let him go. She loved poetic voice, each flowering pronunciation never the same. 

A European summer hiatus was followed by an enrollment at the University of Southern California in the fall. Annika would live with them, Sydney and the Russian maid Olga, until the fall of '92. After her graduation (Bristow, Sydney A., class valedictorian) Annika accepted an internship in Georgetown, and after putting in a transfer in to the university, moved to a loft in the city common.

They never heard from her again.

{Now}

Some days she could lie on the beach and just live in the moment. Forget how her life turned out and remember all the color that filled the black-and-white life of espionage. She would look back on her youth and remember feeling innocent and carefree: it was on these days that she would always remember Annika. 

Then there were other days. Days when she would clutch the pregnancy test abandoned in the bathroom of her villa and wish that she had a purpose for it. She would only retreat to the ocean to drown in a sea of liquor and hope that it would wash her away the way he had. 

She set out for the shore one day with a classic in hand, a light in her eyes and a smile on her face. After a month she had adjusted to the change in her life and had decided to make the best of it. 

She plopped down on a lawn chair in sand of a shoreline café, her eyes shaded and her intellect fed. A server in white would approach her hourly to refill her slowly disappearing scotch. The third hour arrived and the penguin suit came back, this time a cosmopolitan on his tray and note in his hand.

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Seien Sie heute lieblich, aber wird morgen schön sein. Leben Sie heute, als wenn es Ihr Leisten war. Der vierzig-siebt Tag ist nah. 

"Today is lovely, but tomorrow will be beautiful. Live today as if it were your last. The forty-seventh day is near."

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him

They told him nothing. He didn't know who was keeping him there, but it was understood: the two letters his captor had sent him he had burned instantly on the spot. They told him nothing.

Then they told him everything.

He would see her soon. 

[End Part I] next update: **08.09.02**


	2. Part II

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Title: L'Ecrivain se Lamente [2/7]

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Author: Airebella E. Spencer

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Rating: PG-13

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Feedback: always craved *** **nudge nudge** * - **his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com

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Distribution: CD okay…all others, remember the Golden Rule: Ask first, Post later.

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Disclaimer: oh how I wish Alias was mine…but you can't have everything you wish for J 

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Summary: Post ATY…again another character of my own creation, but this is a seven part serial, so it'll be finished. Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected. Part II: they remember, she moves closer…..

[AN]: thanks to all those who've read the story so far and to those who've told me what they thought. your gracious reviews mean a lot. I want to thank everyone who's helped me with this piece, especially **kat** because she's the best beta out there and she will be really missed. I'd also like to thank my substitute muse, my sister **sydney** because probably would have never finished this if she wasn't always on my ass, and **hil** for just being great in general. again, if there's any confusion…don't hesitate to email me and ask.

"_I get a little warm in my heart when I think about winter/I put my hand in my fathers glove/I run off where the drifts get deeper/sleeping beauty trips me with a frown/I hear a voice/'you must learn to stand up for yourself 'cause I can't always be around." _tori amos.winter

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Habiter demain comme si cet étaient aujourd'hui. 

Live tomorrow as if it were today.

{Now}

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him

He knew nothing.

He analyzed her face, the glistening emerald of her eyes, the bounce of her curls, the curves of her smile. 

He knew nothing.

Her voice would always flow, each word connected to the next. Her movements were fluid, her motives hidden. Every utterance held the secret of his life in it's breezy palm.

He knew nothing.

She would never answer his questions straight forwardly. He called her Annika, and she called him _Michel_. She knew everything about him.

And he knew nothing.

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she

The paper fell from her nimble fingers, landing soundlessly in the sand by her feet. She called the penguin back over to her and inquired in her shocked Italian the origin of the cosmopolitan on the table at her side. He could only begin to describe _her_ {" tall, olive skin, dark hair, and beautiful dark eyes, just like you, Senora"}. Annika, with her long, lithe body never changed. 

She stood, her world circling about her in dizzying spins that almost pushed her back into her empty seat. The confused waiter caught her as she fell, his strong grip slowly pulling her to her feet. Her brow had quickly constricted, her eyes dark and angry. 

The man's inquires fell on deaf ears. Her eyes were scanning the pearly white beach, searching for _her_, searching for the woman she never thought she'd see again. She glared at the starched words on the sheet by her side, bending over to retrieve it. 

Her brain processed the penmanship, her eyes taking in each word, each letter, each accent, each character. The writing was large and slanted, looped and elegant with a twist all its own. The scrawl itself spoke its own language, brushing a cord in her mind that had been cold for so long. Then something snapped.

She turned around to inquire the location of her generous benefactor, but the server was gone.

Without a second thought, Sydney Bristow was too.

{Then}

Every child has an obsession. A quirk, a flaw, a dislike, an addiction. Teddy bears, security blankets and candy are the common likes: some of the classic hates include anything and everything green or healthy. After all, childhood isn't childhood without a certain degree of attachment. 

Annika came to them at the end of her childhood with her own obsession. Numbers. 

She herself (Hopf, Anni L.) was infatuated with numbers. Even, odd, square roots, irrational, rational. Her undying love for the Arabian creation lived with her since she first learned how to count. Sydney could swear that sometimes she had heard Annika counting the letters in each word, the number of carrots in her salad, or the number of commas in her books. But her most memorable obsession was her favorite number. Forty-seven.

Annika ate her peas in sets of forty-seven: she allowed a limit of forty-seven characters per line in anything she wrote, typed or handwritten, and in any sport possible her jersey number was forty-seven (in those sports that allowed it, of course). 

Once she remembered receiving a poem that consisted of forty-seven stanza, each forty-seven characters long. She told Annika that she was crazy, a comment which marked the beginning of a week long feud that was hastily settled by an order from Jack and cruel chastisement by their young British housekeeper Catherine, who chopped up bits of ground beef and tossed them in a salad.

This device, however did get them to talk, but it did nothing for Catherine herself, as that next day she was fired. Both girls were vegetarians.

Quarrels and quirks aside, one thing was certain. Annika was destined to be one with the pen. Her writing, no matter how oddly structured was beautiful. Her literary voice was lyrical, her descriptions livid and flowering. Her hand itself was uniquely artistic: it painted the portrait of any story with precision and texture. Most importantly, with every piece she produced, there was always a line in a language foreign to her own. Annika's infamous line always echoed through Sydney's mind, yet she never understood its meaning. It's meaning was a secret shared between two people, one of which was Annika.

The other, Sydney was told, was a man named Milo Rambaldi.

{Now}

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him

It was nearly the seventh week he'd been with them, and he'd yet to see his captor. At the end of the first fortnight he'd been moved to an oak-trimmed suite with tall glass-paneled doors that led out onto a long balcony that stretched along the expanse of the house. Annika came to see him everyday, her visits spaced in even intervals of eight. She took him from his rooms to an empty long dining room for each meal and escorted him back unattended, so sure of her power over him that she required no assistance.

That night when she brought him back there was a large manila envelope waiting by his bedside. He growled softly and was about to tear it to shreds when a cool hand stopped him.

He looked at her for some sort of missing explanation: he expected to find it hidden in her eyes, or laced in her countenance. But Annika's mask was taunt and drawn, her eyes cold and stern.

"That, _Michel_, would not be a wise course of action. You're going to want to see what's in that envelope." She slid her fingers underneath his palm and pried his hand loose, and in doing so, took the large casing into her hands. 

Opening it only produced a smaller, stained white package with a fading scrawl spread across its front. The mere sight of it made him swallow forcefully, his eyes beginning to water at their edges.

He snatched it from her outstretched hand, walking backwards until the backs of his calves hit the legs of an overstuffed armchair. He examined the envelope closely, running his fingertips over the starched corners and crude paper.

He looked up to meet Annika's gaze again, and she nodded, confirming his disbelief. She moved towards the door and was gone.

He was alone.

{Then}

He remembered a hockey game. The first game of the season, the first game that he would ever play. The pee wee league in his town had been practicing for months, whole blocks of hours at a time, a lot for an eight-year-old to take. He did it cause he loved the rush: he loved the feel of the ice underneath the blades of his skates, the sound it made. Mostly importantly he did it because it made his father happy.

He was late. The first period had come and gone, then had second, and half-time. He was late again, but then again it was his father. He was always late.

The game was won and William Vaughn was nowhere to be seen. His mother told him that she received a message from the front desk, that he missed his flight and was catching the next one, two hours later. 

But he never came home.

He remembered waking up to a cold house. The house was never cold, even in the blistering heat of the summer. His nose failed to catch the scent of the waffles and pancakes his mother made every Saturday morning: he couldn't smell the coffee he found so repulsive. The door to his room had been opened a crack, and his two little sisters, ages seven(Vaughn, Charlotte M.) and four(Vaughn, Jacqline T.) were standing at the foot of his bed.

He called them to his bed noticing the tears that ran down Charlotte's cheeks, gently scolding them for waking him when they did. Jacqline curled into his side, shaking only until sleep came, and the elder of the two softly cried herself to sleep. When they were finally resting peacefully, he slept.

He awoke to his mother's scream. He remembered shooting straight up in his bed, alone, his sisters gone. It took him all of two seconds to reach his family in the frame of their large front door, his mother clutching the knob so hard that her knuckles were white. 

Sometimes, when he wanted to, he could forget. Forget the pain in her eyes, the deep cut of her wails, the pleading in her voice. She was pregnant, she said. Pregnant women with three children need to be supported by a man, she moaned.

But she also noticed her children's presence. She brushed his cheek and asked him to take his sisters away, down to their immense backyard to lose themselves in their childhood. And he did. But he also saw them.

The men in their black suits, the men with their masks. Their fake pity. Their protocol. One with salt and pepper hair, the other with a fading brown mop. They scarred his memory, his childhood. In adulthood, they tore up the wounds.

That night his mother found him in bed before he fell asleep. She sat on his blue plaid sheets and explained everything to him. She gave him a letter. Written by William Vaughn himself, laced with instructions that she had followed. It had been written only to be seen by his (Vaughn, Michael C.) eyes, only if fate had taken his father's life. 

But he refused to read it. 

His mother placed it on a shelf in her bedroom, and occasionally, as life went on he'd go in and look at it, tempted by the writing on the envelope that he was beginning to forget. 

The last time he went into his mother's room he was eighteen. Senior prom, with Gina Webber and all of his friends. He had his fingers behind its back and was about to break the seal when the doorbell rang. 

He never saw it again.

{Now}

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she

All she'd taken was a box. A container full of her most prized possessions, a select few of the items she couldn't live without. A first edition of _Pride and Prejudice_, faded black and white stills of a high school lake-side party, a folder of old letters and cards, and a silver antique frame. It was with these items that she'd refused to part, as they held the key to the life she once had, the life she could never return to.

She'd left Los Angeles with nothing but a cardboard box and three new credit cards, issued to her courtesy of her father's magic. With a swipe of plastic she created herself a life anew, tucking the leftovers of Sydney Bristow's life into bureau drawers and the closet shelves. 

Thoroughly she searched her villa, neatly removing and replacing items that she had turned over in her frantic search. In finding the sample that she acquired from her flowered hat box, she removed the vellum from her book, placing it next to Annika's poem.

The writing was different, somehow. It was nearly identical, yet she knew something was wrong. 

She pulled a stack of papers from the open case, quickly rummaging through the many leaves until she came to one that satisfied her curiosity. A faded note, stained with strawberry jelly that had once been tucked into her lunch by her mother's caring hand. She drew it out of the pile and put in on the table, placing the poem aside so she could examine the two pieces of paper before her.

She had been right.

The writing was identical.

The doorbell rang.

[End Part II] next update: **08.16.02**


	3. Part III

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Title: L'Ecrivain se Lamente [3/7]

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Author: Airebella E. Spencer

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Rating: strong R…lots of dirty goodness :D

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Feedback: praises and flames…his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com

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Distribution: CD okay, anyone else, Ask First, Post Later

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Disclaimer: I wish it was mine…it's the one thing I keep asking Santa for each Christmas…ah well maybe next year

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Summary: Post ATY…again another character of my own creation, but this is a seven part serial, so it'll be finished. Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected. Part III: they meet….

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"Seen a shooting star tonight/and I thought of me/if I was still the same/if I ever became/what you wanted me to be/did I miss the mark/over step the line/the only you could see?" bob dylan.shooting star

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for luke

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Un vincolo della sorella corre più spesso di il sangue.

A sister's bond runs thicker than blood 

{Now}

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she

Instinct led her to her gun. There were several, strategically placed about the small cottage for easy access. She drew her satin robe around her body and tied the sash at her waist. Removing the nearest gun [position 5, entry, grandfather clock] from behind it's sealed location, she secured it underneath the thick ribbon of the sash, moving towards the door. 

She slowly opened the door, a pleasant smile drawn tightly over her lips. The pads of her left fingers ran over the handle of the gun, aligning the best path for the most appropriate grip.

The bright green of those eyes jumped out at her, cutting deep. The smile was familiar, missed, craved. The touch was firm, yet soft, consoling. She felt her knees as they began to buckle beneath her.

Then her smile froze. Her body went rigid.

It was done.

{Then}

She had a memory.

An immense lake, a deserted shore, a warm afternoon. 

Running up to the surface, running her heated toes through the cool water, running through the woods that ran along the circumference.

Dancing through the trees, dancing across the leaves, dancing in the faded sunlight. 

Jumping into the icy liquid, jumping into the dark depths, jumping into the blue.

Slipping from the dock, slipping because of her grip, slipping against the mossy rock.

Breathing in great gulps, breathing in water, breathing into her own suffocating lungs.

Drowning, drowning in the dark night, drowning into her own body.

Falling into darkness, falling away from the light, falling into the sound.

Silence. 

{Now}

She screamed.

She threw her body upwards until she sat straight up, her palms pressed firmly against the cartilage of her ears. She applied more pressure, increasing the pain, increasing the force, decreasing the silence. Her body ached, her muscles were numb and yet she kept pushing.

Harder.

Harder.

She screamed.

A door slammed shut, and she stopped. She slowly removed her hands from her ears and realized that she was shaking. Her body shook in minor convulsions, out of fear, cold, and heat all at the same time. Her breaths came in pants: she then realized that she wasn't in the water, that the sounds around her were clear, that she wasn't lost in an endless sea of mossy blue.

Instead she was lost in a sea of deep olive green. Smooth linen sheets confined her to the soft sanctuary of a large four poster bed, carved from a stained oak. She was swallowed by the masculinity of the room around her, its gentle musky smell, the familiar glow that it possessed. 

Without further speculation she shifted her weight with the greatest care and swung her legs over the edge of the high bed, slowly pushing herself to her feet. The room was dark, dimly lit by artificial light, spare a tunnel that attracted her vision twenty feet ahead. A door. 

Passing through the doorframe led her into a covered veranda that appeared to sweep out into a long terrace. Its north wall was completely composed of large bay windows, the glass feeding warm light into the cool room. The solid south wall was lined with recliners and an evergreen sofa, whose shade matched that of the potted tree in the corner. 

Her ears perked at a creak that sounded in the background. She spun, her back facing the warm sun, and reluctantly retreated into the darkness. Feeling her way through the blackness around her, she switched on a light, illuminating a side chamber that gave off the appearance of a study.

She turned around, and her froze.

{Before}

****

him

He had a memory.

A distant city, a crowded warehouse, a certain purpose.

Milling through the sweating bodies, milling through the white tunnels, wallowing in his own fate.

Losing, losing his control, losing the connection, losing her voice.

Running, running from his post, running towards the water, running towards her.

Stopping with the sight, stopping to admire the beauty, stopping to taste his death.

Following her cries, following her path, following the smooth air.

The closing, the closing of the gap, the closing of the door, the closing of the last venue of escape.

Water, water pushing him forward, water stealing his breath, water stealing the precious space in his lungs.

Crying, her crying, crying in sobs, crying as she slammed the red fire extinguisher into the thick glass, crying as he disappeared from her sight.

Suffocating, suffocating into himself, suffocating with the pressure, suffocating with the realization.

Swimming, swimming upward, swimming towards the oxygen, swimming towards the calling sound.

Falling, falling out with the draining, falling out onto the asphalt, falling into their hands.

Breathing, breathing in the new air, breathing out the water, breathing alive.

Darkness, surrounded by sound.

Light.

{Now}

****

she

He was real, and she couldn't believe. He was real. She reached forward and placed the pads of her fingertips at each of his temples. She shut her eyes and left instinct to take control. Her sense of touch rose to the surface, and her photographic memory made a map as she ran her fingers down the sides of his stubbled face. They traced the contours of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the sides of his jawbone, and the cleft of his chin. She pushed her fingers back upward into the corner of his ears, preparing the journey down his neck.

He stopped her.

She felt his soft, firm hands encompass her own. She felt they swim in his large, rough palms, and he held her as if he knew she would break. Satisfied that she was solid, satisfied with her reality, he pulled her index fingers to his lips, and he tasted her.

She opened her eyes, the tears streaming down her cheeks. He intertwined their fingers and held her neck in his strong hold, his eyes a piercing green, as if they were screaming out against the brilliant light.

A kiss. Gentle and smooth, long in length and speed. A spark. The electricity moved from his senses through hers, generating in their lips and moving deep from there to regions below. 

She felt him smile into their lip lock, and they broke away. She was cold. 

She was empty.

Soon his turn had come, and her body jumped to life. He followed the precedents that she set and walked along the outlined path, taking his own initiative as well. He memorized the curves of her face, and from this came her ecstasy. Her skin ignited and her toes curled, and then came his touch. Kisses, along her neck, across her collarbone. Down, far into the valley between her breasts, for she was nearly bare, spare the clothes she had previously worn. She could only smile as he pursued a natural trail, tracing a straight line from her jutting hips to the tip of her big toe.

He returned to her lips, and this time they only felt fever. Hunger. They were both demanding, and soon he took control from her capable hands. He lessened the pace, breathing into their kiss, slowly leaning her backwards. Back, into the dark, against the dark olive and scarlet. 

She moaned. He gave her more.

His hands began to roam, up from their previous stop. Along the muscle of her calves, the bone of her kneecaps, and the thinning meat of her thighs. His fingers tiptoed past the middle of her thighs, farther, up around the material into the damp moisture, weakening her knees and stealing her breath from her lips. 

They twisted their way, in the tangle of arms and legs that they were in, to the high bed behind her. Never losing her lips he lifted her up onto the bed and threw the robe to the floor, letting her peel off his white button down shirt. He took every scant piece of clothing she wore hostage, and in exchange let him have a token of his.

She was lost in him, lost in his eyes, lost in his touch. As he entered her, her eyes welled up with tears, and he stopped.

It was silent. Nothing but heavy air passed between the two, who were now one, and she pleaded. Without words she pleaded for more, she pleaded for all of him. 

He answered. 

He was alive.

She cried.

{Then}

Alexander had been the one to pull her from the water. She remember hearing Francie's sobs, and Annika's yelling at everyone in the lake in her angry German. Few understood her, but she did it anyway, calling "schneller, schneller!" and cursing at anyone who managed to say anything otherwise.

She coughed and spit up the liquid in her lungs, forcing herself into a sitting position amidst a circle of half-clothed teenagers. She could feel the relief ripple through all of them, and then only felt pain as Annika pushed her into her bosom, clutching her so tight that she had to squirm in protest.

She strayed away from the water, taking comfort in the attention she was given. She watched it splash and ripple from the warm arms of a fleece-lined jacket, muttering her curses, bedding her scowls. She'd been at its shore once, in her mother's embrace, but they never returned again.

{Now}

She awoke to darkness once again. Content and happiness had flooded her senses, and she sighed deeply, a exhale free of worry and stress. 

She turned to look at him, and found nothing but warm space of wrinkled linen. She knew from the heat that he couldn't have been gone long, and given their history, she knew he would find a way back.

He was gone. And she stilled had no idea where she was. 

Robing and a short walk lead her out onto his sunny veranda, with its white chiffon curtains drawn over two of the large windows. She found a door, its release hidden in the expert craftsmanship of the wood that paneled the glass. 

She found the terrace to be cool underneath her bare feet, long and winding in it's length and width. On the railing before her sat a black mug, coffee, which she knew from the smell, black and strong. She brought it to her lips and drank, then smiled. Black, spiced and powerful, spare two spoons to sugar. 

Instinct lead her to her left. She traced the paved path along the extended balcony, occasionally glancing over the railing at the glistening Mediterranean, and the white sandy shores that hugged its curves. She twisted with the wood, and kept her back to the concrete of the building, inching forward as a flash of white caught her eyes.

Again.

A curtain, she realized. A curtain of silky white that dancing with the salty breeze, moving in its embrace.

She soon discovered its master, the pane of glass that it sheltered. Open, as she had opened his door, knowingly open, open for a reason. A reason she didn't know.

These rooms, unlike his, were well lit. Their colors were bright, streams of pastel in all shades. Dark mahogany, or perhaps another wood of the stained nature, had been carved into pieces of furniture, desks, a bed, chairs, a fireplace mantel. 

Another open door, an empty room. White, cream, pearl. Curtains, drapes, walls, floors, all various shades of the nondescript, the absence of color. All but a stark chair, with its back faced towards her. She entered the room with caution, creeping towards the chair with deliberately, her pace slowly and gradual.

It swung around by itself, perhaps at the will of its inhabitant, and faced her.

A flip of hair, a twinkle in the eye, a misleading smile.

Annika.

****

him

He hadn't slept.

She was lying in his arms, dreaming in a peaceful sleep, and he was awake, staring at the ceiling.

His eyes shut, only to open them just a second later, always praying that time had managed to escape past him. Eventually seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours, and the sky was still black.

At dawn he settled her into the sheets, arranging them to make up for the lack of warmth that would come with his departure, and he rose. His head pounded, his back ached, and his eyes had begun to nag for the sleep that refused to come. He dressed in loose black slacks and an olive button down linen, moving into a side chamber, making the coffee that his throat was screaming for.

Out, into the warm Greek sun, to watch the ocean as she washed out onto the shores of Crete. He'd much preferred the Italian sun, as he'd discovered when they went to retrieve her, when he pleaded for her to be spared. He took his coffee with him, black with two spoons of sugar, as he liked it strong and sweet. He shut his eyes and drank, drifting with the wind, letting it carry him as it pleased from side to side.

A throat cleared and his eyes opened, but no one was there. 

He looked down and found a small girl staring at him, her eyes big and bright, her long pigtails dark as midnight. She was dress in all white, in a plain sleeveless sundress that skirted her ankles, courting with her brown-sandled feet. Her gaze was penetrating, full of curiosity and innocence. 

Her request was voiced in a lyrical French, and he could place it somewhere near Marseilles, maybe slightly farther north. "Grandmére, I mean the Lady, is to see you in the Blue Room," the child had stuttered, her lower lip trembling in fear as he laughed. He knew the cooks well, for they served him his dinner, and they each talked endlessly of their offspring, and the generations which originated in their blood. So he went.

He followed her into his rooms, down the hallways, up the staircase. A left, another left, and a right. She stopped and smiled brightly, her dimples sinking in on both sides of her smile. He smiled in return, and she opened the door, scampering in ahead of him, disappearing around the first corner.

The room was blue. But it wasn't empty.

[End Part III] next update: **08.23.02**


	4. Part IV

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Title: L'Ecrivain se Lamente [4/7]

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Author: Airebella E. Spencer 

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Rating: R

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Feedback: don't make me bed…his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com

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Distribution: CM okay, but anyone else, please ask first.

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Disclaimer: I'm not JJ Abrams. Don't sue me J 

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Summary: Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected. Part IV: Father like son…

[AN]: I apologize for neglecting my duty as an author, and not posting since gods know when. But I'm back, and I should be finishing the story within a couple of weeks. Big thanks to **Karen T **for the terrific beta and everyone else for all your support. 

" _She grew up in east LA watching celebrities living out all of her dreams/The plastic canopy of US royalty drew her gaze towards the sky/and away from her own mind._" saves the day.cars and calories

------

En mors kjærlighet dør aldri.

A mother's love never dies.

{Now}

****

he

He understood. 

Somehow, at a first glance he could look at her and understand how Jack could have loved her. How someone could feel something other than hate for a woman as brutal as she was, as she had made herself out to be. 

No matter how much it pained him to admit it, she was stunningly beautiful.

Her hair was long and straight, pulled back from her nearly immaculate skin. The few wrinkles that dared to disgrace the corner of her eyes and her forehead looked pained to be in existence. Her cheekbones were high and sullen, her eyes deep and haunting. She wore nothing but black-a long black sweater, its sleeves pushed up into the crooks of her elbows, and a pair of dark black slacks that hid all but the toes and the heels of her pumps.

She looked sick, yet overbearing against the different shades of blue. She gazed up then from the faded paperwork she had been examining, and he could feel her sizing him up to an invisible inferior as she stared at him over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. She removed them and straightened, placing the pen that had been in her hand next to the frames on the desk.

The child scrambled past him and ran to her side, giving Grandmére the beckoned hug and kiss. She smiled and scooted past him with a curtsy, her pigtails dancing about the collar of her sundress. He could hear them brush against the door frame, then only silence after she shut the door. 

He could hear the breath pass between them, and Irina motioned to the chair behind him. He collapsed into the cushioned seat and watched the devil as she stalked over him, a curious look glazed over her features. She examined him the way she would a piece of meat, or a fruit nearing its ripened state. Her scrutiny made him uncomfortable, and she knew that. She stared at him anyway.

"We knew you'd follow Laura," she began, turning around to begin her steady pacing. "Beautiful little girl, isn't she? Looks just like Sydney did at that age," she replied with a smile.

She smiled. His heartbeat stopped, and she kept on smiling.

That smile.

Sydney's smile.

He froze.

She wore her daughter's dimpled grin with a look of pain and disdained happiness woven into her lips. Her beauty suddenly disappeared, and he saw her as weathered and old. She became damaged, and all he could feel was hate.

"You have his eyes, you know. And his dimples," she spoke absently, her long fingers reaching out to caress the sides of his rough cheeks. He flinched at her touch and swallowed the anger in his mouth.

"What do you want with me?" He twitched from her grip and made his way to stand. Her leeway ended there, and she forced him back down into his seat with ease, pushing him down into the chair so he knew her strength. 

"No, Mr. Vaughn, I think you need to rethink that question." She grabbed the idle stool from behind her desk and set it down before him. Irina released her ironed hair from its restraints and placed her hands on the stool's edges, turning her wrists outward, locking her pointed elbows. "The question you should be asking is what does Milo Rambaldi want with you?"

****

jack

He was restless. Sleep failed to capture and release him from his ordeal. Francie hadn't heard from Sydney in over a week, but he knew where she was.

She was with _Her_.

But that was hardly the critical issue. He needed to know _where._ And until he did, he couldn't sleep.

He could only silently scream in his own living nightmare, only this one was different. He could never wake up, because he was already awake.

He wondered if he'd see Her.

He wondered if She tasted the same.

{Then}

****

she

Her eleventh birthday. Her father was in Singapore; her paternal grandparents, had once again neglected to even call. It was just her, Annika and Olga in the large Spanish villa, on the quiet street in a neighborhood where every street was wide, every driveway circular. 

She remembered that it had been easy to feel alone. That day she felt lost.

She had found one of her mother's antiques underneath her pillows. Its interior was embossed in gold, full of sayings in languages she had yet to understand. She could only piece together phrases and try to comprehend their meaning. But she couldn't understand.

She could never understand how her father's heart could be so cold. She could never understand Annika's random tears, or her late night conversations, first in German, then after her(Bristow, Sydney A.) mastery of the language, in Russian.

She could never understand loneliness. She could never understand deceit.

She fit a profile. 

{Now}

****

he 

"They foolishly mistook Sydney for me," Irina said. "They will never know that it is so much more complicated than that. They run around trying to prevent this, but they can't. The forty-seventh day has already passed, and now it's too late."

He didn't understand, but he nodded in agreement, not willing to give her control. She would go to her table to read, only to return to her previous position before him ten minutes later. The cycle continued, and she kept moving.

Annika entered shortly after, leading in a cuffed woman clad in all cream. She shoved her prisoner down into a chair that had been brought out and placed besides him, handcuffing her wrists behind her.

The hair was gone from her face and he saw her eyes. Her cheekbones were rosy and full, her expression passive and firm. There was a darkened mark above her right eyebrow, crusting and brown. When she met his eyes, he saw her anger. And as she attempted to smile, he knew something was wrong.

Annika looked different. She appeared weak in the eyes-all he saw was a fragile and delicate person that he didn't recognize. There was an unspoken sorrow laced across each of her green irises, and he didn't know why. She stood in her corner, staring blankly at the hardwood rushes of oak with her thin hands fisted at her sides. His peripheral vision caught them opening and constricting, and he could have sworn that her eyelashes bore a slight twitch.

The door opened and the child named Laura came back to them, cradling a brown leather bundle. She handed it to Irina, then made her way into Annika's awaiting arms, a large dimpled grin plastered across her face. He heard their German and suddenly understood. 

But he couldn't understand the shock in Sydney's eyes. Her gaze was lost in memory, and he had to inquire why.

"The girl's eyes are gray," she said.

{Before}

****

her

She could only feel anger, and for some reason, her eyes began to water. The questions raced through her mind: the how, the why, the where, the what. She longed for an explanation, and yet she craved a reunion. To her, Annika was still beautiful, still exotic. Her skin still radiated a glow that she could never really place, and at once Sydney felt homesick.

But she longed for a place that didn't exist.

A jean cat suit, a golden belt buckle, and a mass of bouncing chestnut curls. The clothing she herself owned, but the volume of her curls was something Sydney could only wish for. She (Deverko, Anna H.) had her folded elbows on each of her knees, and her chin rested on the knuckles of her interlocked fingers. There was a bright twinkle in her emerald eyes, and the smirk painted on her lips was almost mocking.

"Sit." Annika stood.

She could only blink and stare at the women she had once considered a sister, her mind still lost in shock. Her long term memory made slides of every withered picture it had of them, and the questions began to scream in her head. She crossed her arms over her chest to stop the noise, but she never moved.

"Please. Sit." This time, however, it was an order. But Sydney could only stand in defiance, her eyes livid with an unspoken anger. She took a firm stance and blinked, washing away the image of the stranger before her, wiping away all good feeling she could ever possess for _her_. 

The green eyes became empty and dark, and the order was repeated once more. And again, she refused to comply.

So Annika made her sit.

{Now}

****

her

The explanation came a day later. They had been left there amidst the blue, bound to their chairs by simple cords of plastic. The door opened and the child came in with a tray in her delicate hands, whose items they could identify by smell. Warm bread, feta cheese, and tea. Earl Grey, maybe, she thought. She was wrong, however, because as the jug was brought to her lips, she realized that it was chamomile. She hated chamomile.

Laura fed them one at a time, him first, then her. She took her time and carefully gave them each bite, offering Sydney a concealed bottle of water once she realized that the tea had not been well received. Her gray eyes were soft and comforting, her gentle dimpled smile reassuring.

There was a blink and a pause. She swallowed, and Laura frowned.

"You're pretty," she replied in spotless English, and they couldn't help but stare. Her accent was colonial, like her mother's, but it was tainted with another influence that she couldn't identify. "You look just like Grandmére did in those pictures she has from Russia." Another bite, some chewing, and digestion.

During her time with them from then on she ceased to speak. There was a certain unrest visible in her features. They each got their last sips of fluid and she stood to leave. At the door she became apprehensive, and turned around to face them.

"When you leave, remember that my Mutterl holds the key."

**he**

An hour later the door opened and the two women entered, each face baring a solemn smile. Annika soundlessly closed the entry, her hand resting on its golden knob a bit longer was than really necessary. Irina sat down on the table, cupping her knees in her hands. Annika stood by her right hand, her wooden curls bouncing past her protruding collarbone down to the bottom of her shoulder blade. The powder blue of her long-sleeved pinstriped Oxford blended into the room's color decor, spare the white collar and cuffs that had been tucked into the corners of her elbows. The flaps of the blouse were loosely tucked into the waist of the knee-length black skirt that covered her long legs, and in the bright light of the room her pearl earrings glistened.

In her attire she appeared to be more in her element. She was captivatingly beautiful, and the shade of blue she wore made her green eyes appeared darkly wicked. Her mask of stone had been reapplied, her gaze solid, her smile seductive. 

There was a run in the neutral nylons that Annika wore. The strip was several inches long, and it ran up her left ankle. He couldn't help but stare at the flaw that was painted against her image of perfection. He knew it caught Sydney's eye as well, because he could see its reflection in her pupils.

Their gazes crossed, and they smiled as one.

"We never meant for it to go this far," Irina stated, breaking the silence. Her voice dissolved their smiles like acid, and he squirmed at how soothing he found its tune to be. "This wasn't our plan, was it my Liebling?" She paused, as if awaiting Annika's answer, but she continued before it came. "Her way was different, calmer. Safer, indeed. But when you and Jack-" She paused again, in silent memory of her lover-"dropped Mr. Vaughn in our lap, we had to bite. It was never our intention to drown you, Mr. Vaughn. Had we anticipated your arrival, your capture would have been much more pleasant. 

"But I know that you both are concerned with different matters. I believe I've kept you waiting long enough. My ears crave your questions."

Sydney opened her mouth, but hesitated before continuing. She awaited his approval, then spoke.

"Where are we?"

"The Derevko family estate in the south of Crete," Annika answered, her voice fluid. Her gaze was pasted on the leg of his chair, and with her voice her eyes would blink.

"Who _are_ you?" Sydney spat bitterly, her voice full of disgust, her eyes lit with disappointment.

Laughter.

"Dear child, I'm your mother. That fact still has yet to change."

"But who is _she_?"

"My daughter.

****

she

Silence draped itself over them. She saw Annika's eyes slowly cloud over with tears, contradicting the impassive expression on her face.

__

I'm sorry.

Sydney's voice had escaped her and although she moved her lips, no sound would pass through them. All she heard was a faint cough, a strange sort of struggled choke. She swallowed.

"The circumstances of her birth are complicated and of no worth to the two of you. Her father is a German; her paternity has never been a lie to you."

"The girl-" Sydney stuttered, her voice finally returned. It was coarse and foreign to her own ear. "Alexander-"

"My husband," Annika said, running a long finger over the smooth surface of a golden band. For the first time Sydney noticed the large diamond that rested on Annika's left ring finger, blinded as the light passed through its crystals and glistened in her eyes.

"Alexander and I bear no blood relation," Irina stated coldly, noting the disgust in her younger daughter's eyes. "He was raised by my youngest brother. Generous, in my opinion, since Alexander is the product of his mother's affair."

She was suffocating. She could slowly feel her throat closing with each new reply that floated from her mother's lips to her ears. The blue was closing in on her and a new claustrophobia blossomed within her. Her mind was bleeding and she couldn't breath.

__

I'm sorry.

A fog glazed itself over her eyes, and the tears wouldn't come to clear it away. She began to blink rapidly, hoping to clear away her blurred vision, hoping in vain, because all she could see were jaded green eyes.

__

I'm sorry.

****

he

The women had left for what seemed like an eternity, but he knew by the watch on Irina's wrist when she later returned that it had only been an hour. Between the time of their departure and arrival they were fed, the small child avoiding their eyes, chiding their smiles with a solemn frown. A possible ten minutes had passed from the time Laura left them to when _they_ were back.

No introduction was needed. 

"The forty-seventh day-" he started, just as the feeling returned to his fingers. "The forty-seventh day-"

"Has come and gone," Irina interrupted, frowning at his lack of eloquence. "But I suppose you don't understand. Your _SD-6_ and the CIA have no understanding of it. They know of its existence, but they don't know its meaning. Therefore they ignore it. 

"I will say this. It is more than we expected. Much more. It might be too much to reveal now, but there is no way to time how fast everything will unravel. The map, Liebling?"

Annika approached them, from the back of the room, a small side table cradled in her hands. She placed it before them, and returned to the desk to retrieve a faded scroll. She spread out the stained paper before them and resumed her post.

His eyes adjusted to the small writing, and he blinked away his doubt. The slanted print before them was still miniscule in size, faded from the many years of wear. He searched frantically for an explanation, but he was met with none. The paper was marked by numbers. 

__

Two. March 16, 1950.

His memory began to scream in protest, and he remembered the number vaguely. Jack Bristow?

__

Eight. November 27, 1968.

He stopped looking. 

__

Eleven. April 17, 1974.

He could hear Sydney next to him, feel her breath on his arm, now heavy and rapidly increased. There was a choking sound that he heard, someone gasping for breath, someone choking on their own saliva, someone choking on their own oxygen. He wasn't sure anymore that it wasn't him.

__

Forty Seven. June 25, 2002

Her capture. The day after.

__

"On the forty-seventh day, their blood will combine, and with its shedding, the end shall follow."

[End Part IV] 


End file.
